Given that one of the company’s buses crashed the previous evening, the 3 p.m. Fung Wah to New York is very crowded. In fact, it is full to capacity with anxious-looking people chatting with one another about the Feb. 14 accident.

Boarding the bus is a familiar experience for me; I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done it. It smells like McDonald’s, the windows are dirty, the narrow aisle is crowded and all the usual characters are here.

There’s High School Buddy, a friend of mine who attends Northeastern. There’s Cranky Girl, who rolls her eyes and makes a show of moving her bag when I ask if the seat next to her is taken. There’s Classic Lit Guy, asleep but clutching a yellowed copy of East of Eden. The woman to my left one row ahead of me will not stop smiling. It is clear that Happy is not from New York City.

For a moment, I feel guilty for judging these people, but that feeling fades when I realize they are likely thinking of me as Blonde with Pretentious Leather-Bound Writer’s Notebook.

The bus is as unglamorous as its riders are. The back of the seat in front of me is torn violently, like some clawed monster or teen with a pocketknife was bored enough to vandalize it during the four-hour journey. We are going fast, but not exceedingly so.

There is a loud noise every time the bus accelerates, but the noise cancellation feature on my headphones drowns it out.

In the second hour of the bus ride, I realize why Happy stands out. Everyone else on this bus is miserable. We all have the look of desperation in our eyes unique to those willing to risk their lives for a cheap deal. Sure, I might die, but the ride from Boston to New York cost me the exact same amount of money as a cab from the College of Communication to South Station. You can’t beat that price, not even in the afterlife.

I close my eyes and recline the cheap, ugly cloth seat back as far as it will go. I’m getting my $15 worth.

Three hours into the ride, everyone on the bus braces as we nearly hit a tractor-trailer to the left of us. The bus lurches right, avoiding disaster. My stomach drops and my heart races a bit. The bus is silent and everyone looks terrified, but eventually we all relax back into the jerky non-rhythm of the bus.

I realize soon after the near accident that I have no idea where we are. I spend five minutes craning my neck before I finally see a sign. It reads, “East Main Street next left.” It is possibly the least helpful sign on the planet. A few miles later, I figure out that we are in New Haven. Oh, I think to myself, that East Main Street.

We stop at a rest stop between New Haven and Stamford, about an hour and a half from our destination. I get out and talk to High School Buddy. The first words out of his mouth are, “Were you awake when we almost died?”

I call my mother to let her know we’re not far from New York. Of course, this is before we spend half-an-hour getting through Stamford and over an hour in Brooklyn, poorly navigating heavy traffic. Brooklyn is the worst part of the ride because the city is so close you can see it, and if the windows could open, you’d probably be able to smell Chinatown, all foreign cuisine and fake designer handbags.

There is a collective sigh of relief when the bus finally pulls up to its destination, Canal Street, at the foot of the Manhattan Bridge. I get off the bus and say goodbye to High School Buddy while I wait for my mother to pick me up.

A man with no shoes, blood on his face and a rope for a belt gestures to the ticket booth and asks me if this is the right place to get back to Boston. For him, for me and for poor college students everywhere, it is right place.

Riding the Fung Wah is like being in a bad relationship. It starts out so wonderful, with the bus promising satisfaction and asking for so little in return. Once you’re on it, however, it’s jerky, endless and dysfunctional, and by the time you finally get out, you firmly declare, “never again.” But then the bus looks at you with those low, low prices and reminds you of the 10-hour JetBlue airport delays and well, who could say no to $15 for 215 miles?

But I swear, the next time that bus bursts into flames, this relationship is over.

Jillian Jorgensen is a sophomore in the College of Communication.